Chapter Seventeen
Mirabel
The list of “urgent tasks” weighs down the pocket of my apron—Arkady’s parting gift before his Vegas trip.
Tasks that would be impossible for one person with normal human limitations to complete in three days.
I unfold it again, scanning the bold handwriting that somehow manages to convey his commanding presence even on paper.
“He thinks I have four hands and forty-eight hours to a day,” I mutter, immediately feeling guilty for the complaint.
This job is Dad’s lifeline. His latest scan showed improvement—actual, measurable improvement.
The tumor shrinking by millimeters that might as well be miles in the landscape of hope.
But Jesus Christ, the man is an insufferable prick.
I refold the paper and stuff it back into my pocket, mentally prioritizing which impossible tasks to tackle first. The heavy drapes in the east wing need cleaning. The silver needs polishing. The wine cellar needs inventory. The guest rooms need airing. The chandelier in the foyer—
Movement catches my eye.
I freeze mid-step, my body registering the anomaly before my brain processes it fully. The door—that door, the one no key fits, the one Anfisa warned me about—stands open. Just slightly. Just enough.
My heart rate notches up.
I’ve passed this door several times since I’ve been here. Always locked. Always forbidden. The mystery of what lies beyond has burned in the back of my mind because that’s how I’m wired. I always need answers.
And now it’s open.
I should ignore it. Should tackle my impossible task list. Should remember the warning that flashed in Arkady’s eyes when he said, “The east wing is off limits when I’m not here.”
Instead, I step closer, barely breathing.
The sound of movement comes from inside—soft, efficient rustling. A glimpse of cleaning supplies clustered outside the doorway confirms my suspicion before I ever peek through the gap.
Anfisa.
I lean forward just enough to see inside, just enough to commit this trespass that might cost me everything.
It’s not what I expected. Not a dungeon. Not a treasure vault. Not a secret office filled with evidence of criminal enterprises.
It’s a simple suite. Small, contained, and startlingly mundane compared to the opulence of the rest of Ashwater Heights.
This room smells lived-in, personal in a way the rest of the mansion isn’t, as if someone is actually living here. And I’d recognize that scent anywhere… cedar and gun oil. Him. He stays here.
But why? It’s nowhere near as luxurious as the mansion.
The furnishings are basic: a simple bed, a desk, a chair, and a bathroom leading off the main sleeping area.
Beneath the window, on a simple wooden stand, rests an urn.
Elegant but unadorned. Beside it sits a gun in a glass case—a pistol, its metal gleaming under the soft lighting.
The breath catches in my throat. This place is private. Out of bounds.
I should leave. Should back away before—
“Mirabel!”
Anfisa’s voice makes me leap in the air. I jerk backward, nearly tripping over my own feet as she steps into the doorway, her face carved from granite.
“I warned you not to come anywhere near this room,” she grinds out.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer, though the apology feels inadequate for the boundary I’ve crossed. “I saw the door open, and I—”
“And you couldn’t help yourself.” Disappointment darkens her eyes. “I’m finishing up my final tasks this week before I retire. The only advice I can give you is this: stay away from this room. Mark my words; if you break this rule, you will regret it.”
The revelation startles me more than her anger. I knew she was going, but somehow it hadn’t seemed real. “You’re leaving? When exactly are you leaving?”
“Friday is my last day.” She moves into the hallway, pulling the door almost closed behind her, though she doesn’t lock it yet. “I have a few special duties to complete before then. This room being one of them.”
“But why?” I ask, unable to stop myself. “What’s so special about it?”
She studies me for a moment, as if weighing how much I can be trusted. “It’s Arkady’s sanctuary. He comes here when he wants to be undisturbed, and sometimes he stays for days.”
The image forms unexpectedly—Arkady sitting beside that urn, his shoulders heavy with some unspoken burden. Sleeping on that simple bed instead of his luxurious one. Existing in a space untouched by his wealth and power, stripped down to just raw emotion.
“How’s it going to be cleaned when you leave?” I ask, the question practical on its face, concealing the deeper ones I dare not voice.
She shrugs, but the gesture carries weight. “That’s up to him. You just stay away… from the room, and from him. That’s all you need to know.”
The warning isn’t new, but something in her tone is; a resignation, perhaps, or a recognition that her words will ultimately prove futile.
She turns back to gather her cleaning supplies, and I take another half-step away, preparing to retreat to safer territory.
That’s when I see it.
The key slipping from her pocket as she bends to collect a spray bottle. It falls silently onto the plush carpet, unnoticed as she continues her work.
And somehow, I know exactly what it is. The key to the room. This room. His forbidden space.
Time slows, stretches, warps around the moment. I should call out to her. Should point to the key. Should do anything except what my body is already doing—moving forward silently, heart already racing.
I bend down, fingers closing around cool metal, the weight of it substantial against my palm. The shape is distinctive, with an intricate design on the head that matches nothing else in the house.
Anfisa disappears back into the room, leaving me frozen in the hallway.
Tell her.
Give it back.
Walk away.
But I don’t.
I slip the key into my pocket, the metal settling against my thigh like a brand, damning and irresistible all at once.
The weight of the key in my pocket feels like a death sentence waiting to be signed.
I’ve seen the cold calculation in Arkady’s eyes when business calls.
I’ve glimpsed the weapons hidden throughout the house.
I know with bone-deep certainty that this man destroys what threatens him—and I’ve just positioned myself directly in his crosshairs.
“What the hell are you doing, Mira?” I whisper beneath my breath. But clearly, there’s no reasoning with me because I totally ignore my better judgment.
Anfisa emerges seconds later, arms full of used cleaning supplies. She secures the door with a different key from her chain, checking it twice before turning to face me.
“This room,” she says, voice softening slightly, “it’s the only place where Arkady allows himself to feel. Whatever you think you understand about him, you don’t. Not really.”
I nod, afraid to speak, afraid the guilt will leak into my voice and betray my theft.
“I’ve been with this family since before he was born,” she continues, her eyes distant now. “I’ve watched him build walls so high and thick that nothing gets through. Nothing except what lives in that room.” She gestures toward the locked door.
“Is that why you warned me about developing feelings for him?” I can’t help but ask it.
A sad smile touches her lips. “Partly.” She straightens her shoulders, professional demeanor returning. “I have more packing to finish. The family in St. Petersburg is expecting me next week.”
As she walks away, I’m left alone with the stolen key and a choice that feels too enormous to make with rational thought.
I should find a way to slip it back into her pocket, or leave it somewhere she’ll find it. I should respect the boundaries that have been drawn around Arkady’s private space.
But I don’t move. Don’t call after her. Don’t do anything except press my hand against my pocket, feeling the key’s outline through the fabric.
The image burns through me again: the sight of water tracing paths down carved muscle, ink flowing across toned skin.
My body remembers too, a shameful heat building between my thighs at the memory.
This man shouldn’t affect me this way. My fingers curl around the stolen key, and I hate how my body responds—pulse quickening, skin warming, a treacherous ache building deep in my core.
This isn’t just curiosity anymore. This is something deeper, something that makes me press my thighs together as I turn away from his sanctuary.
Five thousand a month. Dad’s treatments. The contract binding me to Ashwater Heights for a full year.
All of it suddenly feels secondary to this key—this small piece of metal that might unlock not just a room but the enigma of Arkady Laurov himself.
The man who watched me with cold eyes as I signed away my freedom.
The man who stood naked and unashamed in his bedroom, water trailing down tattooed skin, as if daring me to touch him… or run away.
I close my eyes, just for a moment, and see him again—standing in that doorway, the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
This is wrong. This crosses a line even I shouldn’t cross, curious nature be damned.
But as I turn away, heading back to my list of impossible tasks, I know with bone-deep certainty that I won’t be returning this key.